


The Taste of River Water

by heartofstanding



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 05:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17781137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: It has been many an age since those days. Yet here, in the twilight, Thorin and Thranduil meet as the end of days comes.





	The Taste of River Water

> “We must depart into the West, or dwindle to a rustic folk of dell and cave, slowly to forget and to be forgotten.” (Galadriel, Lord of the Rings)

It has been many long years since those days. The world has risen and fallen, and he has remained in this world, never-sailing. He has clung to the woods, taking flight as more trees have fallen to the Race of Men, who consume everything in their path. 

_Sprite_ , they call him, _fairy_ and _wraith_. They call him _elf_ , but do not know what an elf is, thinking he is only a half-a-foot high, running around their ankles with only mischief on his mind.

He, perhaps, should have sailed a long time ago – an age ago. But why should he take to the Sea, he who has loved the trees and the stars and the tall trees, and been sated with the taste of river-water on his tongue?

In the evenings, when the moon is yet to rise and the stars are yet to cloak the skies, he leaves the caves that serve as his home (not the grand ones, not Menegroth and the halls that were built in memory of them, but small shallows made in the stone) and goes down to the river. In the mists, he is another flickering light, a star caught and left to fade when the dawn comes.

He dips his hands in the water, slips off the tattered cloth that serve as his robes. They fall away, lost amongst the soft grass and he steps into the water. A little warmth remains from the day's sun, so he does not shiver, and his feet sink in the mud, toes-flexing and seeking to bury himself in the pliable earth. He ducks under, swims for a time, and then cups his hands and drinks.

In the water, he tastes the rain (only yesterday, only light), stones long-smoothed by the fast current, fallen leaves, bark stripped from toppled trees, warmed and steeped by the sun. He tastes the green-earth and even, sometimes, lost starlight. How sweet, he thinks, it would be to taste stars. How it would burn his tongue, the light that is all he has left to remember the song of the Eldar Days. But the river is bitter too, bitter with salt from the elven-tears wrought upon this shore, the Sea too wide be crossed.

Someone is there, by the western bank, dipping their hands to drink. The face is familiar, the surety and wounded pride, but he cannot think why. He withdraws, turning back to the eastern side, thinking of gathering up his clothes and taking flight. If Men have come here, it will be the end of these woods as well.

But he knows that person on the bank, knows by the set of strong of strong shoulders, the fall of dark, tangled hair. It has been long since he has seen someone and known them. He sets his back to the east and swims closer, his body slipping through the water easily.

Then he sees their face and knows their name.

'It has been a long time since Thorin Oakenshield has ventured this far east,' he says, remembering some of his old pride, long deserted with the woods that have burned and brought low.

Thorin – and it is Thorin, though Thranduil does not know how he came to this place, this small valley amongst the trees, with the river running through it – stiffens, looking amongst the mists of the half-light. Thranduil comes closer until Thorin can see him, his eyes going wide.

'Thranduil,' he says, half-awed. The old anger between them has been forgotten, no bitterness coats his words in a poison, no fury burns them. 'I—' He shakes his head, reaches out with a half-shaking hand for Thranduil, though the distance cannot be breached. 'I did not think I would see you again.'

Thranduil does not go to him, does not accept his hand. But he does not pull back, take flight though part of him undeniably does. 'I did not think you would either. How came you here?'

'I don't know.' Thorin shrugs, the gesture endlessly casual in its grace, and Thranduil bites his tongue. He gestures impatiently for Thranduil to come to him, then sighs and says, 'Come here, would you?'

'My clothes are on the other bank.' Still keeping his distance, still keeping himself out of reach, Thranduil ventures closer, treading water.

'Does that matter?'

It is Thranduil's turn to shrug, though it feels neither casual or graceful, the awkwardness of flesh that does not know how to act amongst others. He moves closer still, rooting his feet in the mud and the leaves. Slowly, very slowly, he reaches out and takes Thorin's hands, the warmth of them shocking. Unbidden, he smiles and turns his eyes to Thorin's.


End file.
